


Opened

by frenchifries



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood Drinking, F/F, Flirting, Romantic Dirty Talk, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 14:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19929898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchifries/pseuds/frenchifries
Summary: After a cathartic conversation, Rose is left with some... feelings. Nothing a thorough wifely ravishing can't fix.





	Opened

**Author's Note:**

> direct followup to [Inside](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12614500) but stands on its own as well.

You spends another few minutes sitting on the edge of the bed, face in your hands – partly to protect against the late morning sunlight filtering in through the blinds, and partly because…

“Fuck,” you mutter lowly, a strange smile tugging at your lips. Nothing like divulging one’s fucked up sex issues to one’s brother to start the day. At least you brushed your teeth _before_ checking your phone; if you tried now, your roiling stomach might say “fuck it” and deign to empty right into the sink.

Despite the dizzying nausea of a vulnerability hangover, you find yourself… relieved. Of what, you’re not entirely certain. Of some previously unacknowledged weight at the back of your mind; of all the things you thought you’d worked through, but had never put words to. Relieved to learn that someone feels the same, that maybe you’re not as defective as you’d spent so many years believing you were.

The bed is just starting to call you back to its warm embrace when Kanaya appears in the doorway and informs you that breakfast is ready. Something must show on your face – weary humor, or just plain sleepiness? – because next thing you know, she’s kneading your shoulders with hands that have no right to feel as good as they do.

“I made raspberry pancakes.”

You smile, drag her in for a kiss, and press a mumbled “thank you” to her lips. And god if it isn’t tempting to pull her the rest of the way back into bed, but she’s giving you that Look, the one that means “Rose Lalonde-Maryam or Maryam-Lalonde or whichever way you are feeling today, if you don’t get out of bed this instant I _will_ draw every curtain in the house.” So you acquiesce, and follow your wife to the kitchen.

 _Wife._ Over a year of marriage and the word still leaves you a bit giddy.

“I fear I may have left Dave with some unpleasant assumptions about what I meant by wifely duties,” you muse, mostly to yourself, as you serve your breakfast – two pancakes absolutely smothered in syrup, and a generous cup of coffee.

Kanaya hums thoughtfully. “I am sure he understands how much of a burden my cooking is on you.” She joins you at the table with her own plate, much tidier than yours; she’s kept her syrup in a separate tiny bowl for dipping.

“The heaviest burden,” you agree with a sigh. The real burden is resisting seconds or, more often, thirds.

She works with precision, cutting her pancakes into a neat grid and dipping one piece at a time. Admiring her deft motions only amplifies the heat that thrums beneath your skin. The shift and tense of her arm muscles, the elegance of her fingers, that first time you’d finally asked her to – “I take it Dave needed your help with something?”

You nearly stammer, but catch yourself.

“He did.” Queasiness kicks back up, pancakes turning sticky and saccharine in your throat. “Although, I’d like to think it was a mutually constructive discussion.”

“May I ask?” Kanaya rests her chin on the back of one hand and tilts her head quizzically, irresistibly.

She knows full well the effect she has, and hell if you don’t fall for it every time.

“Kanaya,” you chide. “Are you suggesting I breach my patient’s confidence just like that?”

“Rose,” she says with affecting intensity. “Are _you_ suggesting I bribe you into doing so?”

An interesting proposition. “I will accept payment no lesser than one billion kisses.”

“Hmm.” She taps her claws against her cheek. “Counter offer: one million kisses.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” You swirl your coffee and pretend to mull it over. “Counter-counter offer: ten thousand kisses, _on the mouth_ , and a foot massage.”

“This human marriage thing is certainly demanding, but I find these terms… acceptable.” She leans forward and cocks an eyebrow. “Now. The deets?” Her smirk is only partly obscured by her hand; you purse your lips to suppress one of your own.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Roxy, haven’t you?” You roll your eyes. “It was, as Dave would crudely put it, a sex thing. And I may have divulged some… _personal_ anecdotes. Some of which may have involved you. Or, us.” Your fingernails clink at the ceramic of your mug, threads of anxiety encroaching on the morning’s loose relief. “I may have been a bit out of line, discussing it without consulting you first, and I – I do apologize for that.” Your voice turns quiet at the end.

“Oh,” is all she says at first. Then, with her eyebrows pulled together, “It’s hardly my place to dictate what you can and cannot talk about with your own brother.”

Out of disbelief or fraught nerves, you laugh sharply. “You’re my _wife_! Of course it’s your place, when it’s about our – our fucking sex life!” Then, softly, before you can stop yourself: “Are you mad at me?”

“Do you… _want_ me to be mad at you?”

“No, I – ” Another laugh peals out of you, this time definitely from nerves. “It’s fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“Rose.” Before you have a chance to notice or react, her hand is covering yours. “I cannot help but feel we’ve been through this song and dance before.”

“I am, really,” you sigh, tracing her palm with your thumb. “It was just…”

Just… what?

_and also im sorry_  
_that you had all those fucked up feelings and didnt understand why_  
_and couldnt talk about it with anyone_

“I didn’t realize there was anything left to say,” you eventually settle on, eyes dampening against your better judgment. “And – I should have, because you’re my _wife_ , Kanaya, we’ve been doing this for _years_ and I didn’t even see that I was keeping this from you – ”

“I change my mind,” she interrupts. “I am mad at you.”

“Wh – ”

“I am mad because you are being, to put it frankly, utterly fucking ridiculous.” She squeezes your knuckles. “You have every right to discuss whatever you want with your own family and friends, and you have every right to be confused or unsure about your own feelings!”

You press your face into your sleeve and choke down a damp laugh. God, keep it together, Lalonde.

“I’m supposed to know my own mind.”

Kanaya lifts your hand to her lips, leaving behind a deep green mark. “You know, for a smart woman, you can be quite the dummy.”

You smile and scrub at your eyes with your free hand. “And yet you keep me around.”

“I do,” she sighs with affected weariness. “And what a chore it is. Now please finish your breakfast.”

“You’re not my mother.”

“I am _everyone’s_ mother. I am the mother of this entire planet.”

“And you’re a very good one. But if it’s all the same – and it isn’t – I’d rather you just be my wife. Let’s not make this too weird, dear.”

“Shall I run you a bath after this?”

“I’m not going to call you mommy, if that’s what you’re going for.” (Yikes. You’ll chalk that one up to the coffee playing nasty games with your already-jangling nerves.)

“No. No, that’s what Roxy is for,” she says, trying her very best to smother her spreading grin into her palm. She’s still blushing, averted eyes simultaneously tempting and shy. What a perfectly ridiculous wife you have.

You stick out your tongue and finish eating.

* * *

“Are you working today?” you ask over the running sink. Kanaya hums thoughtfully and finishes loading the dishwasher.

“I might pop in later this evening,” she says. You try not to pout; you want your wife all to yourself today. “Production is going well. I’ve been able to delegate far more than anticipated this season.”

You check the pan for oily residue and, satisfied, turn off the water. “Will you be home for dinner?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Are you offering to cook, or are you asking if I’ll have supper on the table?”

“Mm.” You beckon her closer by the sleeve. “Do you want me to cook?”

“I,” she starts, flickering brighter when you press your nose to her cheek. “I wouldn’t turn up my snout at the prospect.”

Fuck, just her skin against yours is… fuck. You guide her hand to your face. She takes the hint and traces your cheek with a tentative claw. “Kan,” you murmur into her palm.

“Yes?” She laughs in that breathy way that always makes your chest tighten.

“How did I get so lucky?” You tip your head back, drag her claw down the side of your neck, forcing just a little more pressure than she’d offer of her own accord. The angle is just enough that you could almost pass off the way your lips brush hers as an accident.

Almost. If you didn’t have to press up onto your toes to reach.

“Oh,” is all she says before closing the gap. You don’t let her keep this one chaste, instead pulling her in tight by the waist and hoping your intention is clear. “Oh,” she says again. “Right now?” she gasps as best she can between your lips. The feel of it leaves you with a pleasantly heady buzz. You nod and heft yourself onto the counter.

 _Can’t stop thinking about our first_ , you don’t say. _Want you_ , you definitely don’t say. So you tilt your head back and crush your mouth against hers until you’re both drawing ragged breaths. She pulls back enough to breathe, hands on your waist, forehead pressed to yours, and laughs again.

“Not here.” Her breath smells like raspberries; there’s still a bit of red caught between her fangs when she bites her lip. The sight makes your pulse quicken.

“It’s our house,” you insist, and lick the berry remnants from her teeth. “And you ought to start making good on those ten thousand kisses we agreed upon.”

She attempts to help you to your feet. In defiance, you lock your ankles around her hips and shift your weight backwards. It sways her closer, close enough for you to dig your teeth into her throat.

“Rose!” she chokes, but makes no move to escape your grasp. She knows how the game goes. You bite at her like it does a damn thing, like you’re the big fearsome bloodsucker instead of her dreadfully short and squishy human, until she stops being afraid to do it the other way around.

“My wife is a statuesque alien vampire,” you snort. “Why is it so difficult to convince her to ravish me like one?” Heat crawls under your collar and up your abdomen, and alright, maybe the kitchen in late summer isn’t the best spot for a morning rendezvous.

“You make it quite the ordeal,” Kanaya chides, still out of breath, and finally you let her hoist you into her arms. _God_ she’s strong, it’s almost nothing for her to carry you to the bedroom. You really are the luckiest woman alive, you think, and laugh when she lowers you carefully to the mattress. Too careful for your preference, but it’s sweet.

“Just get down here,” you say when she spends a second too long watching you with wide eyes. After all these years together, she still looks at you like some treat she fears she shouldn’t indulge in. You don’t like thinking too hard about how that makes you feel. (Amused, flattered, unworthy… yeah, thinking is the worst possible thing right now.) So you sit back on your heels and coax her into doing the same. “Little as I mind taking the lead,” you say, nudging into her lap, “I wouldn’t begrudge a _bit_ more reciprocity.”

Kanaya ducks her head in, what, shame? That won’t do at all. You fix a hand on either side of her face, rub at her pinprick-flushed cheeks with your thumbs. The absurdity of dancing around each other like this is, admittedly, frustrating.

“Are you alright?” you ask. She’d seemed receptive, or maybe you’d just convinced yourself she was. “Am I being too pushy?”

“Not at all,” she says hurriedly. “I mean.” She bites her lip. “I’m sure I’m just being silly.”

Oh. Something _is_ bothering her. But if not your forwardness, then what? You slump, the exhilaration of the moment spiraling back down. Shit.

“Are you mad at me? About what I told Dave?”

“I’m not _mad_.” She pulls you to her chest, nose in your hair. “I’m… You said it’s not a problem anymore… Like I said, just me being silly.” Her laugh is far from happy, and when you scoot out of her lap, her decidedly damp eyes confirm it.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” You squeeze her hand. “I told you, you’ll be the first to know if I need to talk. I just… hadn’t realized there was anything left unsaid.” Kanaya nods, still avoiding eye contact, and you kiss her cheek. “Do you remember how awkward it was, back when we were so young and stupid?”

“It was only a few short years ago,” she says, half smiling.

“A few very, very long years ago,” you correct. “A lifetime ago.” You sit against the headboard, situate her so you can dig your fingers into her scalp, and consider a different tack. “Remember the first time we had sex?”

She chokes on something between a laugh and an anguished groan. “Which time was that?”

“The time that _wasn’t_ just us clumsily feeling each other up while making out fully clothed.” You grin against the back of her neck and switch to finger-combing her hair. A low, trilling vocalization starts up. “I think we even managed to get our tops off.”

“Is that the time you – ”

“Face-planted into your chest? I think so.”

“Okay, yes, I remember that one.” Her voice is tinged with amusement, if also embarrassment. “I wanted to go down on you so badly that time – ” The admission lances through you like electricity. “ – but I was terrified I would scare you off.”

“You probably would have.” You swallow dryly. “Because I remember wanting you to. I think I’d have imploded if you’d actually offered.”

Kanaya laughs for real this time. “We really were unbearably fucking awkward.”

“Hmm…” Fingernails scraping over her scalp around her horns, you know she likes that one even without the rumbling of her thorax against your chest. “It was worth the wait, though. That first time you did…”

“ _Fuck_ ,” she whispers, more likely from the memory than the scalp massage. “Neither of us lasted very long.”

“I think you came before me,” you tease, walking your fingers down the back of her neck and up the front. She shivers, tips her head back against your shoulder, parts her lips where your thumb brushes the seam. Fuck, _fuck_ she’s so perfect.

“Absolutely shameful,” she says. Her breath starts hitching again when you smooth your hands down her front and tug her further into your lap.

“Just completely unconscionable.” It’s an effort not to grin too hard when her hips twitch involuntarily. “I mean, who does that?”

“I’m not the one,” she pants, “who passed out in her partner’s bosom immediately afterwards.”

“Can you blame me?” You cup your hands under her breasts, squeeze and rub at them through the thin fabric of her blouse. By your ear, she huffs something unintelligible. “It’s quite the incredible bosom.”

“And when…” She swallows, gathers her words. “When you asked me to…” She cuts herself off by digging her fangs into her lip. One hand comes to rest over yours, the other delicately tracing your throat. _Oh._ Yes, _that_ always affected her quite strongly. Affected _you_ more than you could have even anticipated.

You shift forward just enough to press your lips to hers. The resultant moan sends more electric spikes through your abdomen. “God, that one was messy.”

“I was sure I’d killed you,” she laughs, almost hysterically. “Thought I’d absolutely ruined everything.”

“Yes, accidentally killing your girlfriend during sex _would_ be quite the faux pas.”

Hopefully your voice doesn’t reveal how shaky you are – just from the memory of her teeth, sharp and intense like nothing you’d ever felt. The sensation of the puncture, the gut-wrenching _pop_ of skin, how _easy_ it was for her fangs to slide in, as though your flesh was where they always belonged. And the blood, _god_ there was so much of it, hot and sticky and it _hurt_ but you couldn’t get enough, and – you trusted her. Trusted her to hurt you and soothe you, to take you apart and put you back together again.

And to let you let _her_ indulge in what you knew she needed, too.

“You were – ” The rattling purr quickly overtaking Kanaya’s chest leaves her words uncharacteristically clumsy and thick. “ – so insistent, you know?”

“Oh, you make it sound like it was all my idea.” You move to mouthing sloppily at her neck, as if you could ever hope to show her what it’s like from the other side. “I think we both know how much you get out of it.”

A breath catches in her throat as you drag your teeth across it. “I don’t like hurting you,” she says, quiet.

“I know.” You leave a small kiss beneath her jaw. “But I’d be lying if I said you didn’t look damn sexy with my blood on your lips.”

“ _Rose_ ,” she cries, grip on your hand tightening almost painfully.

Her thighs press together beneath her skirt, which bunches enticingly around her knees. Kanaya’s hand glides jointly with your own down her abdomen like a spirit planchette – who’s making them move? It doesn’t really matter. Not when you can feel her hitching breaths and tensing muscles. Not when you reach the pleated hem and nudge your fingers underneath.

She turns her face into your neck and shudders back against you. Her vocalizations resonate through your bones, deep and buzzing like static.

“Remember when you finally got a finger in me?” You punctuate the statement with your own teasing fingers on her cool, smooth thigh.

“Mmhm,” Kanaya moans shakily. “Wasn’t… wasn’t easy…”

(Well, the last thing you want to do is remind her how many panic attacks it took to get there.)

“But you were so good,” you coo into her ear. “So patient and careful.” Maybe it’s the intoxication of the memories, or her noises, or her weight pressing against you – whatever the reason, you find yourself slipping into that loose, viscous headspace where you don’t quite care how ridiculous you sound if it keeps Kanaya arching into your touch.

“You’re so good at taking care of people,” you continue. Her breaths gust hot and humid over your neck, breaking with a sharp inhale when your nails trace featherlight lines up her thighs. “But you’re afraid to take care of yourself. To let yourself take what you want.”

“I didn’t come here to be psychoanalyzed,” Kanaya teases, with effort. By now her radiance pulses in time with the shifting of her hips, rising and falling with every affected breath. With your free hand, you turn her face so you can kiss her more fully. She warbles your name. When you get a good look, her eyes are blown and heavy lidded.

“So what do you want?”

She stares, hazy focus slowly sharpening into something more alert, more intent. Turns until she’s properly facing you. Presses against your front and, with renewed hunger, starts marking up your face and neck.

A breathy “ _fuck_ ” slips from between your lips, unbidden. You sink lower onto the mattress, letting Kanaya stretch over you, keep you pinned with her weight alone. If you prodded her she’d certainly let you up, but the thrill of being unable to move is –

“ _Shit!_ ” you laugh when she laves her tongue over your clavicle and clumsily paws at the collar of your shirt.

Goosebumps prickle down your arms and abdomen, warmth pooling as her fangs find your skin. She traces your collarbone up to the juncture of shoulder and neck, sucks what is sure to become a deep bruise, and bites down.

A sharp gasp tears from your throat; it’s only a shallow bite, but your hips hitch nonetheless. You toss your head aside to provide a better angle and free your arms enough to wrap around Kanaya, silently willing her teeth deeper. She rolls against you in a full-bodied arc, moans into your skin, sighs out a cooling breath through her nose. One of her hands sneaks up under your top to palm at your chest. Yours clench in the back of her shirt and – oh, you should have undressed before all this, now your pajamas will be a mess and her clothes will wrinkle and she’ll have to change again for work –

“Fuck!”

Kanaya’s fangs sink just the smallest bit deeper, her tongue carefully lapping at the slow trickle of blood. Waves of heat and energy pulse through you, pound in your skull, it’s just so damn hard to _focus_! All you know is her hands are on you, and her teeth aren’t the only thing you want inside you right now.

Emphasis on the _right now_.

You pat at her shoulders, barely enough strength to be considered a push. She surfaces with a gasp like a diver returning from the depths, eyes glazed with desire and lips smeared festively green and red. Any soreness you may be suffering is instantly eased by that sight alone.

“Clothes,” you mumble before she can begin fussing. Kanaya just nods and lets you undo her blouse with shaking fingers. Damn buttons.

Part of you longs to revel in the process, to leave lingering kisses over every inch of newly exposed skin. But your insides are quickly unspooling with molten need, and there’s little you can do but fumble into undress like a pair of clumsy teenagers.

Sufficiently bare, you nudge at Kanaya’s shoulder until she falls onto her back and lets you drape over her like the world’s heaviest blanket. Her arousal writhes ticklishly against your lower abdomen; you bury your laughs in the crook of her neck, hold onto her arms like chainsaw-strengthened lifelines.

“Well, hello,” you say with much less dignity than intended. Shifting so you can bite at her lips leaves your hips aligned with hers, your knees bracketing her thighs.

“Rose?” Her eyes, bloodlust haze filtering out, search your face. You smile, nose pressed to her temple where sweat-damp hairs stick.

“Mm hmm.”

“Is…?”

“ _Mm hmmm._ ”

“Oh,” she breathes. “Are – ”

“Darling Kanaya. Dearest sweet beloved wife Kanaya. If you are about to ask if I’m sure I want you to fuck me, I swear – ”

She shuts you up with a kiss, wet and deep and thorough. That… might have been a whimper. Your pulse throbs beneath the surface of your skin – rolling, coursing, crashing like waves, and you suck down shuddering breaths as she curls into you by inches. God, fuck! It’s… been a little while. She eases you through it, kissing your nose and pushing stray hairs from your face. Pressure builds deep in your core, a hot bubble near ready to burst.

“You’re doing so well,” she whispers, breathless.

“You can… more…” is all your mouth seems capable of at the moment. Kanaya responds with a nip to your earlobe.

“Slow,” she pants.

“Slow,” you agree, “but more.”

Kanaya continues to unfurl inside you, malleable in that way for which you are so, so thankful. Electrified heat sets your bones ablaze. Fangs tease at the column of your throat until she finds that scabbed-over spot. Her tongue soothes the abused skin, then seeks out a fresh expanse to mark up in kind.

For a blessed while, everything melts away except for the pleading cries and laughing moans, the heat of rushing blood, the luminance that permeates the membrane of your eyelids – and pulsing, rippling pressure that leaves you gasping and grasping at sheets, tangling your fingers with hers, drenched in sweat and lust and –

The bubble doesn’t burst so much as it seeps through you, like atoms escaping a star; and even if you were a hundred suns, she would be the infinitely vaster black velvet firmament filling all the spaces between.

Gradually, yet all too soon, the paroxysm eases out of your body. You blink back into your senses and are immediately taken by the sight of Kanaya beneath you, her face glowing in so many ways it kind of makes you want to cry. Not that you’d admit that.

“I, uh.” You roll off of her and enjoy the press of the mattress against your aching muscles, limbs loose and limp like jelly, and laugh. “Think I got a little delirious there, for a bit.”

“A little?” Her hand finds yours on the bed. “My love, I do believe you were babbling something about stellar nucleosynthesis.”

“Who knew.” You tip your head onto her shoulder. “It would appear extremely good sex makes me into quite the astrophysicist.”

“I thought you preferred the soft sciences.”

“I got your soft sciences right here,” you snicker, and grope clumsily at her right breast.

“Oh my god,” she snort-laughs. “You are wrecked.”

“Hmm.” You close your eyes and breathe in her scent. “Sufficiently.”

You lay like that for a few minutes, sticky with miscellaneous fluids and feeling all too much like a recently-painted wall. There is something about the grossness you find worth reveling in. That fallen-apart sensation, allowed to be not just imperfect, but objectively unappealing – and yet Kanaya is there, and you know she will continue to be there.

“Hey,” you mutter against her neck. “Carry me to the bath?”

She cards her claws through your hair. “That was not part of the bribe.”

“How about…” You trace the curve of her ribs-waist-hips with teasing fingertips. “I erase your remaining kiss debt. I forgot to keep count, anyway.”

“But I still owe you the foot rub?”

“Oh, absolutely.”


End file.
